At the Bottom of the Ocean Or On The Surface Of The Moon (In the Court of the Crimson King)
Or, if you prefer, scratch your name in the hollow
of my back. Pull the bedsheets out from under me,
leaving intact the glasses and plates from last night’s
warfare. A magic trick that I haven’t fallen to the floor
of the moon. There’s a trap door in your love. I feel
its rough handle every time you tug the rug over
the coins of my eyes. Maybe it leads up, a ladder
to the starfish coves. Tomorrow I’ll make a rope
from the lengths of your veins, hope they’re strong
enough to hold me. This isn’t an escape route.
This is me eating figs from the fronds of your hands.
This is me rowing the lifeboat, gathering memories
to me like freezing children.
It’s August, MotherFuckers!
Image taken with iPhone, title of the art for sale at Jewel Box.
Words written as the world wakes up.
Ears On is you is or is you ain’t my baby.
Time Taken five minutes.
Brain On novel word count, Batman, Total Recall.